


What We Did in the Dark

by softkaneki



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Trailer Park, Angst, Class Differences, Class Issues, Depression, Diners, Drug Use, M/M, Music, Private School, Recreational Drug Use, Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Trailer Trash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-18
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 04:20:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2637833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softkaneki/pseuds/softkaneki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross is trailer trash. Statistics tell him he's going nowhere. In order to defy that, he starts working at the local diner so he can earn his own cash. The problem is, the diner is right near the local, and very prestigious, boy's school.</p><p>The boys from the school often go to the diner. They're rude, brash and make a mess of everything they touch. Ryan knows this - so he tries his hardest to leave them alone.</p><p>Brendon Urie is the worst of the lot.</p><p>Ryan finds himself drawn to this wild and arrogant boy.</p><p>Joined by music, fiercely protective of what they love; it can only end one of two ways.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

> _Tracks: Digging - Vanna and Sleep - Citizen_

I believe everything he said to me

I grit my teeth, hands shaking as I reach for my flask. I lied when I said I had coffee to keep me warm, instead I had vodka to keep me company. Spencer isn’t stupid - he knows I’m lying. He doesn’t really expect anything else of me. 

No one should expect me to give anymore.

Not that I can. My heart was cut from me so artfully I almost appreciate it.

I breathe carefully. I haven’t been out for a while, so it’s easy to get giddy from the supposed excitement of it. Truth be told I’m unsure of what I’m doing. Like a good friend, Spencer had come looking for me, pulling me from my stupor and reeking mess of an apartment. Like usual, I don’t show my gratitude, despite feeling it. I don’t deserve him as a friend.

We’re waiting for a bus apparently. Where we’re going I don’t know, he won’t tell me. Perhaps so that I won’t complain beforehand. I check myself in the reflection, unsurprised and slightly disgusted at my appearance. I look like a junkie joining a chain gang. My eyes are heavy, red rimmed and grey. I must have cut my hair at some point because it’s choppy and uneven, not even in the fashionable sense.

In short, I look nothing like the groomed image I had so desired.

“You okay?”

Spencer was glancing at me. Kind eyes shining with worry and good health.

“Obviously,” I scoffed.

I nestled into my scarf as my nose was getting cold. Winter in England was bitter and unfriendly, it’s cold seeped into your bones, dampening one’s spirits and skin. No wonder everyone here was so... Cold. Awkward.

Never mind I guess. I’m stuck here and that is that.

Back when I was still sober, I used to have dreams of grand things. That a fresh start would heal me, that I would find a new purpose in life, and that maybe, if I was lucky, we would meet again and this time he would love me too.

Back when I was less than alive I realized that no one liked a fag. Not really.

The bus arrives, creaking and huffing it’s way to a halt. We climb on, he’s pays the price per usual and we make our way to the back. The seats have holes, the windows are covered in scrubbed out words; this isn’t the best part of the country. I lean against the window. It shakes my head and the engine crowds out any other noise. I’m glad of that, it means I won’t have to make conversation with Spencer. Bless. He has no clue how fucked up this all is.

I came here to get away from my world. The people here don’t give a fuck about you unless you disturb them. So I did well.

For awhile I was still the same. I would go through my day in denial. He was gonna find me, music was my focus and I could do well with that. All was good. Only occasionally would I stumble and the whispers would follow me wherever I was. He had only pretended not to love me, he was just protecting himself. I couldn’t face any other option. Falling.

I started drinking more, no money for pills anymore, not that I cared. I burnt my guitar in rage and tears. He had never loved me. All was shit. I couldn’t hear anything, I wasn’t breathing, my sight blurred and I saw the mess I had made. Drowning.

Eventually getting out of bed was the hardest thing I had to do. Sometimes I didn’t even do that. I was empty just like him. I had no energy left. I was so lost, and this time he wasn’t there to save me. All was pointless. It was a wonderful caricature of intimacy, if anything. There was water in my lungs and I was drowning from within, no more tears, no more pain; it was all fucking pointless. Dying.

People underestimate the power of a broken heart.

In a way I know it’s all me. If I hadn’t pushed him, listened to him, maybe he would still be here. Maybe I wouldn’t be sitting on a dirty bus in the outskirts of Manchester, still thinking of what I could have done.

“Ryan?”

Spencer’s soft voice draws me away from my self pity. We’ve stopped.

_Dead._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I haven't updated in ages. I've been so busy lately. And I also find I love this story more than anything I want to use it for original characters lmao
> 
> But anyway, here's a small instalment.

> Track: Durban Skies - Bastille

Money has pretty much been a consistent worry throughout my life. I’m always the last problem on my dad’s list of issues; the rent, dad’s supposed welfare, tax, car fuel, and mom’s medical bills to name the most important. In that order as well. I would have put mom before any of the other’s but I guess I’m not the one to make decisions.

Some days I’ll go without food, others I have no place to sleep.

I don’t mind really. I have more freedom than other kids. Being of no consequence to one’s only functioning parent means no curfew or anyone checking up on my school record. I mean there are downsides, as is the way with life.

It’s not all bad. Sometimes Winona Mason will let me stay over at hers, she feeds me, hugs me and tells me to come whenever I want. I can’t do that though. Mama Winona fosters a lot of kids and I can’t place my own problems on her, she’s busy enough as it is. I may be a bastard but I’m not that bad.

I’m going there now though. It’s been two weeks and I haven’t eaten for a couple days, so I reckon it’s okay.

The end of summer is sticking to the back of my neck. I hate the heat, there’s no escape from it; outside, inside, awake and asleep, it’s always there to disturb one. I pity the boys who go to Gascoigne School. If I had to wear a shirt and tie every day for school I think I would probably die. No. I would definitely kill myself before the first week was out.

Mama Winona’s trailer is actually compromised of three trailers. They all shine in the sun, just been cleaned I guess. Wooden outdoor furniture has been placed out the front, symmetrical and tidy just the way everything should be. A small girl is sticking windmills in the ground. She’s either contributing to or ruining the idyllic scene in front of me - I’m not entirely sure which.

I actually feel nervous. God, I never feel nervous. Ever.

I knock on the door of the middle trailer. A boy, probably no more than 11, answers the door. His bright eyes are shining, though he himself has an accusatory stance and an insolent glare. He chews on some gum and looks me up and down.

Ah yes. This was Michael. I had forgotten about him.

“ _MAMA! HE’S HERE!_ ” Michael bellowed, rattling my ears.

God I fucking hate that kid.

Sticking his jaw out, the tiny bitch speaks again, “She’s been worried sick about you, you dick.”

“ _Michael_.”

We both look up. That formidable voice belongs to Winona Mason and no one else.

“ _ **Put a dollar in the jar**_.” 

Michael is normally uncooperative, but by hell does he run back inside to obey Mama’s orders. I still stand in the doorway, awkwardly chewing on my lip. I was about to speak when I was pulled inside and into Mama’s strong hold.

“Ryan Ross, where in the Lord’s name have you been?!”

Fuck. I’m choking up. Fuck. Fuck. I can’t. Get a hold on yourself, Ryan!

“Inside and out really,” I answer her, evading further questions hopefully.

“I told you to come here whenever your daddy isn’t letting you in! Sweet baby, you’re skinner than before!” Her embrace was tight and for some reason I welcomed it - just as I welcomed her concern.

Shit. I’m none of her business.

I wish I was.

_No I don’t._

Yeah. I do.

I shake my head and blink. The hell is wrong with me? I cough, clearing my throat, trying to find the words to talk.

“I’m just kinda hungry today... I thought you wouldn’t mind...”

“Of course not, baby, you come right on in.”

I don’t deserve her kindness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short omg


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this didn't happening sooner ugh

> Track What A Catch, Donnie - Fall Out Boy

  


Perhaps I’m just overdramatic. There’s always the possibility that things aren’t as bad as I think - like maybe I just live in a bizarrely privileged area and most kids are like me everywhere else. I’ve never left St Ida, let alone Alabama, so whatever theories I have could be possibly true. Maybe.

Mama hustles me through to the main room. Michael’s sitting on a sofa, chewing gum and reading a comic - it’s not one I know. I sit down on the sofa next to the other. The younger Way brother is next to me. His expression is unreadable as he stares at me, it’s a bit unnerving but then again, I’m not known for being particularly expressive. What is his name again? Oh yeah - _Mikey_. A shitty name no doubt graced by shitty parents.

“Hey,” I say.

He smooths his hair down and blinks at me.

“Hello.”

I clear my throat, if I’m here I might as well be pleasant, it’s the least I can do. “How old are you now?”

“15.”

“Cool.”

And that was the end of that. What a shame.

This room is unusually quiet. Normally there were children around, shouting about something or watching TV, sometimes even getting along. Today, however, it’s just me, Michael and Mikey. Not the best of combinations. The atmosphere is dry and tasteless. My thoughts drift towards homework, not a topic I normally think about, let alone take part in.

I can hear Mama arguing with someone in the kitchen. Is it Jenna? It’s probably Jenna.

_“You don’t fucking get it do you?!”_

I can’t stand drama. It gets in the way of the actual issue.

The front door slams and I see a flurry of brightly colored hair storm past the window. I was correct.

People start slinking out of their holes. Noise starts to fill the place as the children realise the disturbance has left. Two small children run through the room, crashing into the sofas and wildly unaware of the three presences in the room. How they ignored Michael is a mystery. Especially since he was determined to trip them up. I almost forgot how lively it is here normally, should’ve realized that the quiet was unnatural.

I hear footsteps walking towards this room. I look up. The older Way brother, Gerard he was called, was standing in the doorway. He’s a senior at my high school I believe, however I have no need to pay attention to him at school. Or anyone really. He’s an alright guy I guess, from the small snatches of conversations we’ve had.

“Dinner’s ready,” he says, beckoning us into the kitchen.

I get up and the other follow suit. 

Whatever Mama’s made smells good. My stomach rumbles, which is embarrassing; I don’t want them to think I’m desperate. I’m not. I just prioritized my needs. Yeah. That’s all.

At the table we’re made to pray. It’s not something I choose to do, they’re probably isn’t a God but if that’s what I’m expected to do here, then who am I to refuse. I’m accepting a kindness and I have no real way of repaying.

The food was good and I am so grateful. Conversation was limited, due to there being small children who constantly ask questions. The memory of the argument between Mama and Jenna still hangs fresh in the air, so that’s probably a mood killer. 

I push my plate forward. “Thank you, Mama.”

“No problem, sweetie,” she smiles at me.

“Mama?” One of the children, the youngest I think, pipes up.

“Yes, Hayley?” 

“Why is Ryan calling you Mama? He don’t live here. Where’s his mama?”

My stomach clenches. Fuck children. They know exactly what not to say. 

My discomfort must be noticeable, because Mama just replies gently, “Ryan’s mama is in hospital.”

I didn’t want to think about that. Holy shit. Tears are pricking at my eyes and a lump rising in my throat. Jesus fucking Christ I can’t do this, not here, not now. Not ever. I cough. Glance up. She’s gonna ask another question isn’t she.

Is it possible to dislike a 6 year old?

“Then why don’t his daddy look after him?” Persistent. Insistent. 

“Hayley.” The warning note in Mama’s voice is gonna be ignored.

“Where is Ryan’s daddy?!”

“Hayley!”

“No,” I speak up. “It’s fine.”

It isn’t.

I speak again, “I don’t need looking after. It’s not like my dad wants to anyway.”

I shrug. The air is tense. God. Someone needs to say something. Diffuse the fucking atmosphere or whatever.


End file.
